


Forever and a Day

by amusewithaview



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bestiality, Don't Judge Me, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, I already warned for "interspecies" but I will also warn for wolf tongue., I'm already judging me, Interspecies Sex, Is it bestiality if the 'bestial' one is fully sentient?, It's kind of like Fade tongue but it involves shapeshifting., Knotting, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Magic, Wolf Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took Lavellan a few weeks of wandering the Hinterlands to realize that Solas wasn’t sleeping in the camp…assuming he was sleeping <i>at all</i>.  He managed to arrange it so that, every night that he had watch, he always took either first or third.  What with Cassandra’s odd preference for second watch and Varric’s night owl tendencies, Lavellan had taken to letting them sort it out and taking whatever watch was left.  It was on three subsequent nights of first watch that Lavellan first noticed something strange: Solas always, <i>always</i>, wandered off once camp was set and watch-order established.</p><p>Which meant he must be sleeping <i>outside of camp</i>.  Where the rogue Templars, crazy Circle mages, <i>red lyrium</i> Templars, bandits, wolves, bears, and <i>demons</i> roamed.</p><p>Daft, daft elf!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maleficar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maleficar/gifts).



> The original prompt: "Solas can turn into a wolf given the fact that he is Fen'Harel. Lavellan is weird and kind of into that (or maybe she isn't). It can be a male or female Lavellan, or not even Lavellan. Either that, or Solas turns into a wolf and mates with other wolves. It can go either way."
> 
> I went with door number one: Solas!wolf/femme!Lavellan.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **READ THE FRIGGIN' TAGS, PEOPLE. READ THEM.**

It took Lavellan a few weeks of wandering the Hinterlands to realize that Solas wasn’t sleeping in the camp…assuming he was sleeping _at all_. He managed to arrange it so that, every night that he had watch, he always took either first or third. What with Cassandra’s odd preference for second watch and Varric’s night owl tendencies, Lavellan had taken to letting them sort it out and taking whatever watch was left. It was on three subsequent nights of first watch that Lavellan first noticed something strange: Solas always, _always_ , wandered off once camp was set and watch-order established.

She knew that he came back eventually (obviously, he was there in the morning, after all), and he didn’t seem tired, so – for a few days – Lavellan assumed he just…didn’t need that much sleep. Perhaps it was a side effect of his mastery over the Fade? Since she wanted to get into another debate with him about her magic, spirits, and the Fade about as much as she wanted a matching green mark on her bare hand - she avoided asking and stuck to observing. What she noticed worried her: Solas was never in camp during _second_ watch, either. In fact, adding it up, it seemed that the only time he _was_ in the camp was when it was _his_ watch.

Which meant he must be sleeping _outside of camp_. Where the rogue Templars, crazy Circle mages, _red lyrium_ Templars, bandits, wolves, bears, and _demons_ roamed.

Daft, daft elf!

Annoyed, Lavellan resolved to confront him and ask what in _Fen’Harel’s name_ he could possibly be _thinking_ as soon as a good, discrete, opportunity arose. As luck, and a careful bribe slipped to Varric, would have it, the next night was an off-night for her: Varric on first watch, Cassandra on second, and Solas on third.

She could sacrifice a little sleep in the name of finding out what was going on in her fellow elf’s head.

Not that she thought she would ever truly understand the elf that was not quite Dalish, but clearly not city-bred. She’d dubbed him _Hahren_ both as a jibe about his age relative to the rest of them and for the singsong cadence his voice took on when he was imparting his ‘wisdom’ – whether she wanted to learn from him or not. He, in turn, had begun by calling her _dah’len_ , the way his lips twisted around the word making mock of the more common affectionate usage.

Over time, though, he had started calling her something else: _Little Keeper_. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.

Lavellan just did not understand Solas. He seemed to disapprove of the Dalish and _pity_ city elves and the _oddest_ things made him smile. Even her most combatively phrased questions were met with pleasure, and – in spite of his disdain for Dalish traditions – he outright _grinned_ , eyes lighting up with fierce pride, whenever she drew on her training as a First to aid the Inquisition. That had, in fact, been the reason for her new nickname: _Little Keeper_ , for the way she’d come to care for the men and women of Haven. _Little Keeper_ because she saw the wisdom of uniting disparate folk behind their one cause. _Little Keeper_ , said with the strangest mix of laughter and burgeoning respect.

Her mock _hahren_ had lately taken to acting as hahren in truth, trying to guide her and aid her. She didn’t particularly _want_ to learn his brand of magic, or understand his Fade-walker’s view of spirits. The only spirits she cared to know about were the ones she had to fight, a pragmatic viewpoint, and also one she knew brought him no end of frustration.

Lavellan sighed as she passed Varric, heading for the woods. Perhaps frustration beget frustration, perhaps he found her to be every bit as disconcerting as she found him. She doubted it, but perhaps.

The woods of the Hinterlands were thinner than she was used to: the trees so old that their size and strength had killed off most of the usual undergrowth save for the hardiest of shrubs. The thick branches overhead blocked most of the light of the moon, waning at the moment, its fullness having been achieved only a few days past. Still, she was an elf, and a First besides, there was more than enough light for her to track a fellow elf, even one as _experienced_ as her unwanted hahren.

“Solas?” she called, once the camp was out of sight. How deep into the woods had he gone? There was a faint rustling ahead, and she grabbed her staff off of her back just in case it was a bear, wolf, or Creators-damned _Templar_. Edging forward, she found a break in the trees and a small trickle of a stream coursing out of a fracture in one of the many hills that dotted the Hinterlands.

She huffed, looking around for - _oh_.

Solas was standing just across the stream, facing away from her, his clothes folded at his feet and his staff lying across the neat bundle. The moonlight lovingly traced along smooth lines of muscle, lending hints of blue and purple to his fair skin.

“Is there a particular reason you do not wish to rest at camp?” she called, exasperated beyond measure.

“I am rested enough,” he responded without turning, clearly unsurprised by her presence.

Lavellan stifled the urge to snarl. “It is not safe. What could you possibly be doing out here that you cannot do just as well, _and more safely_ at camp?”

He turned, then, and something about the way his eyes caught the moonlight struck her as odd. She ignored her unease in favor of concentrating on keeping her eyes on his face. Nudity was not as big a taboo for the Dalish as it was for the shemlen, but that did not give her license to ogle. Although a very small (infinitesimal) part of her had to admit that what she had seen was _very_ worthy of a second, even a third or fourth, look.

“I hunt, most nights,” he told her calmly. “Perhaps there is some Dalish trick of which I am unaware that would allow me to do so from the _safety_ of camp?”

“You _hunt?_ ” she asked, incredulous. “For what?”

He smiled, “For whatever crosses my path.” Solas took a step closer, tilting his head to one side, “Your curiosity should now be sated. You should go back to camp.”

“No,” Lavellan said, shaking her head, “not without you. You can hunt some other time, and take someone _with you_. Not even the Dalish hunt alone.”

He chuckled, taking another step towards her, then leaping gracefully across the stream to stand just a few feet away. “It is late, Little Keeper, and you are tired. Worry about bringing me back into the fold some other night and leave me to my hunt for now.” He shook himself, and something about the motion made Lavellan want to back away – which, conversely, only made her firmer in standing her ground. “I am…restless, tonight,” he continued, looking up at the sky again, “I would not make easy company for anyone, least of all _you_.”

She ignored the odd emphasis and grabbed his arm, “I do not care how _easy_ your company is, I care that you are _safe_. You do not even have a bow!” she cried, changing tactics and injecting more than a hint of scorn into her voice: “Would you use your magic to harry rabbits?”

Solas looked down at her hand on his arm, and she quickly removed it. She could _feel_ the magic emanating from him, far more than she’d ever felt coming from a single entity before. The Fade was pressing in, thick and heavy, making the mark on her palm hiss and sputter like a candle in a draft. Ribbons of pale color seemed to form from the moonlight, wrapping around Solas until she had to look away from the overwhelming brightness. When the light finally died away and she looked back, she found not her fellow elf – but a white wolf, one larger than any she had ever seen before.

“ _You ask so many questions,_ ” Solas’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, “ _but never the right ones._ ”

Lavellan felt like a child who had been given a picture puzzle, but on placing the last pieces found a completely unexpected image had been created from her workings. Solas, who constantly defied her expectations and behaved in ways she found completely confusing, so much _magic_ , a wolf… these things wanted to add up in her head, they wanted to come together, but the picture they painted – no, no it couldn’t be. She rejected it.

“What,” she paused, licking suddenly dry lips and attempting to gather her composure, “what would be the right question?”

The Solas-wolf chuckled, “ _You know the question, Little Keeper. **Ask it.**_ ”

She shook her head and took a step back, bracing herself, preparing to run –

“ _Would you lead me back to your camp, **Little Keeper?**_ ” he asked, amusement coloring his words.

To bring trouble to those she was responsible for, trouble in _this form_ , trouble called Fen - _no_. No, this was not – _it could not be_. She took another step back, and to the right, never taking her eyes off of the wolf, off of _Solas_.

“ _I hunt what crosses my path, Little Keeper,_ ” he reminded her, almost gently, “ _you were the one who chose to leave the safety of firelight._ ”

Lavellan’s hand tightened on her staff, the Fade so close that it took the slightest thought to begin to summon a fireball.

“ _If you run I **will** catch you._ ”

She snarled at him, tossing the fireball at his paws and turning to flee all in one smooth motion, and then she was running, running, running, as fast as she could. She ran into the woods, away from camp because he was right, she could not lead _danger_ to her people, not and call herself any sort of respectable First. _Little Keeper_ rang in her ears with new meaning, an echo of mockery for every fire shared, every day spent with a wolf at her side.

His laughter echoed through the trees and a flash of white at her left had her veering right, up a hill. She was fleet of foot and well-versed in woodcraft, but his four legs against her two should have had her on the forest floor with his teeth at her throat in moments, the fact that she still stood, that he was _toying_ with her, was – to her way of thinking – only further proof that he was the one she thought him to be.

Another flash, to her right this time, had her turning yet again, and she despaired. Lavellan knew he was guiding her, _herding_ her, but what choice did she have? To stop would be to surrender to whatever he had in store, to run _at_ the flashes of fur would likely end the same… but she was First of her clan, Herald to the shemlen, and the _Little Keeper_ of the Inquisition. If she was to die tonight, she would die fighting, not running. She pushed aside all the thought trails that had begun to clutter her mind since first sighting Solas and focused on her surroundings. One of the taller peaks that dotted the Hinterlands loomed ahead. It was highly likely that he was herding her towards a wall, planning to corner her. Lavellan gripped her staff a little tighter and prepared to draw down lightning.

There was a faint chuckle, and then a wave of force knocked her from her feet and swept her through a small hedge and into a clearing. She stared up at the sky for a moment before sense asserted itself and she was scrambling to her feet – only to be knocked down again by another pulse of magic. This time she felt the pressure firm on her shoulders, and despite how she kicked and cursed, she could not lift herself from the ground. There was a faint tugging on her arm, and she turned her head to see the wolf – Solas – with his teeth locked around her staff, pulling it away.

“No!” she shouted, and her magic sparked and – and it felt like something was pulling it, pulling the very core of her out. Lavellan shoved her sense of the Fade away, locking her own magic down as tightly as she could rather than feel it pulled _out_ and _away_.

Solas took the moment of distraction and used it to tug her staff away: a toss of his great head sending it spinning off into the undergrowth. He padded closer, standing over her so that he could tip his head down to meet her eyes.

“Why?” she asked, because she didn’t understand.

“ _Still asking the wrong questions,_ ” he lamented.

“Damn you, Solas!” she snarled. “ _Why?!_ ” Magic crackled all about her and she found she could move nothing save her face. He lowered his head still further until all that she could see was white fur and glowing blue eyes.

“ _That is not my name._ ”

Lavellan trembled as much as his magic would allow, but she didn’t ask his name. Instead, she blanked her face as much as she could and asked, “What are you going to do?”

“ _What all wolves do to prey after a successful hunt: I’m going to **devour** you._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

The odd emphasis had her eyes widening. She had a very keen sense of danger, and every warning bell in her head was going off right now, but she did not fear for her life. “Solas – " she gasped as a rumbling growl emanated from his chest, seeming to vibrate the very air between them. “You’re not going to kill me,” she said instead of pressing the issue of his name, half a statement and half a question.

“ _No,_ ” he said, “ _I do not intend to take your life from you._ ”

“Then…devour?” she asked.

He jaws dropped open a touch, tongue making a brief appearance as he licked his chops. “ _Yes,_ ” he said, eyes never leaving hers as he slowly shifted his head down her torso till his snout was poised just above the soft meat of her belly, “ _devour._ ”

Perhaps her danger sense was not so finely honed as she had thought. “You – "

He dropped his great head down still further, to nudge his snout at the seam that ran down the front of her leggings, the heat of his breath sinking through the thin cloth to reach her most tender of places. “ _Devour,_ ” he crooned, “ _consume, use, there are many words for what I intend to do to you, until we are both satiated._ ”

Lavellan’s mind went blank with shock at what he was implying – no, outright _stating_. “You’re joking,” she said flatly.

“ _Oh no, Little Keeper, not even a little._ ”

“No,” she said, panic bubbling up inside of her, “ _no!_ ” She reached for her magic, then, hoping to get a spell or two out before that horrible wrenching, sucking, _siphoning_ could begin. It was no use, though: as soon as she opened herself up it was as if a greedy fist had wrapped around that part of her and was yanking her magic out by the handful. Lavellan cried out in pain and fear: she had never felt anything like this before, not even in battle with Templars – red, or even just the normal brand of mindless Chantry fervor. She still had a faint sense of the magic that was being drawn away, she could feel the pull as Solas – no, he was not the Solas she knew, and to call him such was to put a face of the familiar on someone she was rapidly discovering was anything _but_ \- as the _Wolf_ drew her magic into himself.

By the time he was finished, there were two matching damp patches at Lavellan’s temples where tears had slid down the sides of her face to disappear into her hair. Her hands had cramped from her attempts – thwarted by the grip his magic had on her – to clench them into fists, and she’d nearly bitten through her lip in her attempt to stifle her whimpers and cries of pain.

“ _Sha, sha, dah’len,_ ” the Wolf murmured in a tone generally reserved for the comforting of frightened children, nosing at her cheek in a parody of comfort-touch. She felt heat and a foreign wetness, and realized he was licking her tears from her cheeks. She was too weak from the loss of her magic to put up even a token protest. “ _You will be alright in a moment, dah’len, just a moment._ ”

Lavellan sneered at him, there was _nothing_ he could do to make this right. _Nothing._

Again, she felt a gathering of magic, felt the Fade pressing in on her skin and making the mark on her palm flare and flicker in the moonlight. There was a faint tickle as every stitch she wore was _unwoven_ , sliding off her skin and onto the ground as so many scraps of cloth. Lavellan had only the briefest fraction of a second for fear to attempt to overwhelm her before the magic the Wolf had been gathering reached full potency and the spell went after its target, namely: _her_.

She was dimly aware that he must have released the binding he’d laid on her body, because her back had arched so hard that she was sure that her shoulders and heels must be the only parts of her still touching the ground. He was feeding her magic back into her, forcing it through the channels he’d drawn it from, but it wasn’t quite the same. He’d _done_ something to it when he’d drawn it into himself and now it was as if water that had frozen to the form of a vase was being forced back into the shape of a cup: either the vessel would shatter or it must change to fit.

She had made a habit of being strong: she would not shatter.

That did not feel like a virtue, at the moment.

Lavellan could _feel_ the magic working through her, coming back to its home and _changing_ it along the way. It was almost exhilarating, and certainly terrifying, not least because it _didn’t hurt._ No, it felt like a warm bath heating her insides. It felt like hands gently stroking and rubbing along weary flesh, soothing it. It felt like the serene ache of muscles well used. It felt astonishingly _good_ , and that was somehow more frightening than everything else that had happened that night.

“ _Relax, dah’len,_ ” the Wolf soothed, “ _it will be over shortly. **Relax**._ ”

“What are you _doing_ to me?” she grit out.

There was a short silence, and then she felt a large paw pushing down on her belly, forcing her torso back to the ground and giving her something concrete and physical to focus on. “ _Had you been born in Arlathan of old, this would have happened ages ago. The marks you bear on your face are a pale mockery of what once was, nowhere near as telling as the mark on your palm. I am merely finishing something begun by others: I am completing with the hands of a master a work begun by the fumbling fingers of half-taught apprentices._ ”

“Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?” she said, more than a trifle archly.

“ _I have been accused of many things over the years, dah’len, but a false sense of modesty has never been one of them._ ”

It was the sort of dryly-spoken comment that would have surprised a burst of laughter from her, especially when spoken by Solas. Here and now, though, coming from the gigantic Wolf that had just shoved magic into and through her, it made her want to curl in a ball in a dark corner to try and figure out how she could have judged the situation – and her companion – so wrongly.

“Why?” The question just slipped out, near pleading. It was a mix of a whole host of other queries: why now? Why reveal yourself to me? Why are you doing this? Why? Why? _Why?_

“ _The humans may try to claim you for their Andraste, but your magic, species, and very **being** marks you as one of **mine**._ ”

It both was and was not an answer. Lavellan stared up at him incredulously, “I have never claimed as much.”

He seemed to smile as much as a wolf could, “ _Claiming goes both ways. You may have started running tonight, but I have been hunting you for far longer, Little Keeper._ ”

Which brought her back around to _why_ again, but she was distracted by a sudden pulse of magic, and the way her body broke out into gooseflesh at the feel of it. She gasped, suddenly _very_ aware of the night air against her bare skin…and the hungry blue eyes of the wolf above her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to the special hell.

Lavellan was trying to figure out how to say, _You cannot be serious, you addled twit,_ without incensing the - she might as well admit it, even if only in her head - the _god_ above her. “You’re currently a wolf,” was what she finally settled on, “and I am…not.” There, that was at least somewhat tactful, yes?

The Wolf chuckled. “ _I would claim all that you are, and that requires having you as all that I am,_ ” he said calmly. He was using the same eminently reasonable tone that he had adopted when trying to convince her that it would be simply _marvelous_ if spirits and mortal folk could wander the Fade and the earthen realm alike, together in glorious amity.

She hadn’t bought it then, she wasn’t now.

Somewhere in the back of her head, part of her was trying to figure out whence came this sudden spark of defiance, this ability to compartmentalize and – while realizing that she was dealing with a _deity_ \- treat him like the elf she had known for these past weeks. She poked and prodded at her own responses and finally came up with _magic_ as the answer: the magic that he’d pulled from her, the magic he’d pushed back _into_ her, the magic that was settling into her very bones. Things felt sharper to her senses: the moonlight brighter, the scents of the forest stronger, the sounds louder. It made a certain sort of sense that this _enhancement_ would extend to her very _self_ and, well, Lavellan had never been easily cowed even _before_ the Temple of Sacred Ashes had seen her imprisoned, released, elevated to near sainthood, and set into a role of leadership in a vast horde of shemlen.

Lavellan was distracted from this navel-gazing by the feel of hot breath washing over her _now very exposed_ cunt.

“Sol – “ she started to yelp, words cut off by a sudden sharp pain as her thigh was _nipped_.

“ _You **know** my true name, Little Keeper,_ ” he reprimanded.

She glared at him mutinously. Abruptly, she felt magic pushing her down again, holding her firmly to the ground and… _spreading her legs._ She cursed and struggled, stopping only when she felt the faint press of sharp teeth on the skin at the crease between leg and hip, a clear warning.

“ _So stubborn,_ ” he sighed, somewhere between amused and admiring. She heard him moving (held as she was, it was rather difficult to lift her head), and then felt warmth as he settled down between her legs, the heavy weight of his head coming to rest over the lowest part of her abdomen, the end of his snout just below her navel. “ _You know, by now, who I am. Why not use my name?_ ”

 _I understand why all the stories paint you as a trickster and a liar,_ she thought sourly, _you make madness sound like sense._ Lavellan would have cursed him in her native tongue, but all the best curses used some version of _his name_ , damn him. That left her with human expletives: much more crude, but somewhat satisfying in their vulgarity. “Go fuck yourself,” she snarled.

“ _I already told you, dah’len,_ ” it was disturbingly incongruous to hear his ‘hahren’ voice in this particular situation, “ _I plan to fuck **you**._ ” He drew his snout down across her belly to the top of her mound and breathed against it for moments that felt like minutes.

Lavellan froze, mind working rapidly. She was no stranger to sex, no stranger to the feel of hot breath and tongue on her, but her mind stalled on _wolf_ and _Solas_ and – strangest of all - _Fen’Harel_. Part of her was concerned about the mechanics of what was about to happen, but most of her was caught up with gibbering in shock and fear at a _god about to claim her_.

Then tongue entered the equation and thought fled in favor of sensation. The Dread Wolf’s tongue was, well, a _wolf’s tongue:_ long and thick, saliva a good enough lubricant that she knew that even if she were able to remain entirely _disinterested_ in the goings-on, it would be enough to ease his passage. Unfortunately for her pride and sensibilities, she rather doubted he would be content with her _disinterest_ , a thought proven valid when his magic suddenly spiked.

She felt an echo of the warm, soft pleasure that had run through her when he’d returned her magic, but intensified. This was an _aimed_ and _very specific_ caress, heating her lower belly and making her clench her teeth on a breathy gasp. Fen’Harel chuckled darkly, then lapped very slowly at the core of her: long, deliberate strokes of his tongue that started at her entrance and ended in a rough pass over her clit. Between his magic and his tongue, her muscles started to heat and loosen even as she fought against it.

“ _So stubborn,_ ” he said again, this time with an ominous amount of delight. The magic that allowed him to speak with his elvhen voice while using the wolf’s body meant that, even with his tongue busy, he could speak freely and easily. “ _You are **delicious,** Little Keeper, a true feast._ ”

Lavellan grit her teeth and tried to think of something _other_ than the gigantic wolf between her legs, not wanting to give him any sort of satisfaction. It would not have been easy, but perhaps she could have managed it had he _not - kept – talking_.

He spoke of how he admired her, first for her will to survive, and then for her ability to _thrive_ amidst the adversity. He spoke of his frustrations with her and her dismissal of the Fade, her impertinent questions and attitude: “ _You have no idea,_ ” he told her, “ _how many of our conversations have nearly ended in my having you right beside those steps._ ” He told her of all the things he wanted to show her: ruins within - and without - the Fade, the truth of the rise and fall of their people. He told her what he wanted to do, how he wanted to help the elves rise up and build something _new_ , not something crafted with the ashes of what was, but rising _from_ them…

…and all the while, he steadily worked his tongue over, and then _into_ , her.

Lavellan was biting her lip so hard she was unsurprised when the taste of blood spread in her mouth. His tongue, his _Creators-damned tongue_ , was now working in and out of her in a parody of a true mating. It was thicker and longer than a man’s, dexterous like fingers, and it was _driving her to insanity._

He curled his tongue as he dragged it from her core, and a fine tremble started in her thighs. He withdrew his head for a moment, but she felt his breath against her: the heat, then the cool of the night breeze against the wetness he spread. It made her want to shiver, but she was trying – desperately – to keep a lock on all physical reactions, shaking legs notwithstanding.

“ _What do you imagine that you will lose by allowing yourself this pleasure?_ ” Fen’Harel asked curiously. He was slowly working his tongue back inside of her, but this time he pressed close till the tip of nose rested against her clit, cool and damp and just enough pressure that, had she not been magically shackled, she would have writhed. “ _You will come for me, Little Keeper, it is inevitable._ ”

She started cursing him in all the languages at her disposal, throwing in the few words she knew of Tevene and Qunlat as well – she wasn’t actually certain if they were curses, but they were rough enough speech that they _might_ be.

Fen’Harel laughed, and then set one paw low on her belly and pushed _down_ while he pressed his tongue _up_ and –

Lavellan’s words shattered into gasps and moans.

“ _So beautiful, ma’sa,_ ” he hummed in satisfaction and arched his tongue again.

She choked down any further sounds and shook in his hold as her orgasm swept through her. It seemed the inability to move heightened feeling, or at least her awareness of it, something she would have been happy to discover in _any other circumstance_. At the moment it added a dimension of frustrated anger to the pleasure she could not help but feel.

When her traitorous cunt had at last stopped clenching on him, he slowly licked loose of her and stood, stepping lightly till they were face to face – or face to snout, as it were. Fen’Harel sighed and began lapping lightly at her chin and one side of her cheek, cleaning the blood that had trickled down from her lip. “ _I will hear you **scream** the name you refuse to let yourself say before we are through,_ ” he told her, not as promise or threat, but as simple fact.

Lavellan stayed stubbornly silent, even as a small burst of healing magic mended her torn lip. She reconsidered that stance as soon as his magic gathered again, this time to turn her over onto her belly. “What are you _doing_?” she hissed as she was drawn up onto knees and elbows. There was a bit more give in her magical bindings this time: she could move a little, and her hands were free to clench in the grass. She dropped her neck down and rolled it from side to side, trying to relieve some of the tension that had built as she fought against the sensations he inspired. Most of her muscles were lax from her recent orgasm, but her alarm was making her stiffen up again.

“ _I am, as you pointed out, a **wolf** , Little Keeper. Did you think I would take you as a man might?_”

She gasped as pressure built at the base of her spine, forcing her to arch her back and cant her hips towards him. She could feel the brush of fur against her skin and, when she looked, she could see his front paws had come to forward to bracket her elbows. His breath was hot on the back of her neck and Lavellan’s mind started a disbelieving chant of, _This is going to happen, this is really going to happen and you can’t stop it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish note: I bastardized a few endearments together to form "ma'sa" which (in this story) basically means "my own" or "mine" - kind of an endearment. Probably not very 'endearing' when spoken by a giant wolf about to have his way with you whether you like it or not.


	4. Chapter 4

“ _I might show you leniency,_ ” Fen’Harel offered, cool nose nudging at the hair just behind one of her ears and making her shiver. “ _You have but to say my name, my **true** name, and I will give you your release._ ”

Lavellan was not a fool, and even before encountering Jospehine, she had been no stranger to wordplay. “I do not think the ‘release’ you are offering would involve allowing me to get up and walk away unmolested,” she said stiffly.

He laughed, “ _True, but I thought to give you one last chance to say my name willingly before I drive it from your throat._ ”

She opened her mouth to spit more expletives, but then two things happened at once to turn her words into whines: he delicately lapped at the tip of one pointed ear with his tongue and drove his hips forward to force the fullness of his length into her cunt. Lavellan yelped and instinctively bore down against the intrusion, but there was nothing to be done: he’d prepared her well, slicked the way, and his aim was true. He was seated deep within her and she could do nothing but feel him.

His cock was long, thicker than his tongue but not so thick as she had feared, considering the size of him. Lavellan bit her lip and tried not to move, adjusting slowly to the invasion. She considered cataloguing the differences between this and any other encounter she’d had prior, but she didn’t actually want to think too hard about what was happening. She wasn’t sure what brought her more shame: being taken as an animal in the woods _by_ an animal, or her inability to recognize Fen’Harel under her very nose.

She could feel fur and heat covering her from where he curled over her ass to the middle of her back, and his breath puffing hot and damp against her ear. He rocked forward into her and his magic kept her still, holding her steady for his thrusts. Lavellan focused her eyes on her hands in the grass, digging her fingers into the dirt and clenching them.

“ _Are you trying to ignore me? Ignore **this?**_ ” he punctuated the question with a rough plunge that would have lifted her knees clear from the ground had his magic not held her down. “ _The more you resist, the sweeter your eventual surrender. A hunt is always more satisfying when the chase is long, and,_ ” he brushed his snout over the back of her neck, letting her feel the sharpness of his teeth, “ _the prey worthy._ ”

“I hope to leave you disappointed,” she ground out.

“ _You could never disappoint me, Little Keeper, your very nature is a delight._ ”

The combination of sweet words and rough handling made Lavellan’s head spin. Then he brought his magic back into play and she thought it might fly clean off. He used the same trick that allowed him to push and pull her into place to stroke and caress over her skin. He paid special attention to her softest, most tender parts: the backs of her thighs, undersides of her arms, belly, neck, breasts, it felt as though he was running light fingers over all of them at once. Her breath came faster as she tried to hold herself together, as she clenched her teeth around the sounds rising up the back of her throat.

“Stop!” she finally cried. “Please – I don’t want this!”

He paused for a moment, just long enough to nudge his nose against her cheek. “ _You will._ ”

She had no time to respond to that quiet pronouncement before he was increasing the speed of his thrusts, readjusting each time until he found the angle that drove a gasp from her throat. Once he’d found it, he never strayed, winding her up further and further with magic and touch until the bite of her grip on the earth was the only thing holding her together.

“ _Ma’sa -_ “ he called her again, and then trailed off into elvish too obscure or archaic for her to understand – and didn’t _that_ make a whole lot more sense now that she knew the truth of him? She tried to concentrate on what he was saying to give herself something else to focus on, but abruptly she was aware of a new resistance as he thrust against her, a pressure at the mouth of her cunt that was new and _growing_.

“No, no, no,” she whispered in horrified recognition, “you cannot!”

“ _I can,_ ” he informed her, and the magical projection of his voice sounded rougher, more of the wolf’s growl surfacing when he told her, “ _and you **will.**_ ”

His magic seemed to lock down around her all the stronger to prevent struggle as he forced his growing knot past the tighter muscles at her entrance. He ground against her until it was lodged snug inside, and forced her to stillness until it had grown past the point where anything but time would get it out. Lavellan’s every exhale became a panicked whine as she felt him grow within her, pressing her innermost walls until at last, inevitably, he crowded against that spot that made her see stars. She struggled then, clawing the ground and fighting his hold as much as his magic would allow.

“ _Sha, sha, ma’sa,_ ” Fen’Harel murmured. She felt teeth against her shoulder again, a warning prickle and then pressure and pain as he bit down. The hurt was barely enough to distract her from the pleasure, but she was aware enough to feel alarm as she felt magic draw to the wound and settle over it.

She was distracted from her concern when he released some of his hold over her, enough to let her move a little. There was a saying she had heard one of the shems use, once, _Enough rope to hang yourself with._ After she’d made Varric explain it she’d thought it silly, but it applied here, as she could not _help_ but move, struggle, writhe under his hold. The ‘hanging’ stemmed from the fact that her every motion pulled on the knot inside of her and forced it against that very center of pleasure. She moaned, trying to hitch her hips away from him, but that only rubbed the knot against her harder, which made her cry out and try to move again, which worked it further – it was a vicious cycle.

“ _Take your pleasure, ma’sa, I give it to you freely._ ”

She did not have breath enough left to tell him what she thought of _that_.

It took the merest flex of his magic to finally push her over the edge again, but once she was there the pleasure just _did – not – stop_. She writhed, bound tight to him by magic and knot, and every time she thought she might come down, every time she thought the pleasure might abate enough for her to have time to _think_ , he pushed a little more magic into and through her, or brushed her skin with the feeling of a thousand caresses at once. Her struggles only magnified the pleasure the knot forced on her, but she could not help but fight, muscles straining and bunching and constantly _flexing_ around his knot.

At last, after what felt like hours, she exhausted herself and hung limp in his hold. His teeth in her shoulder had ceased to hurt long ago, but she could still feel them, though she could do nothing about it. She tried to relax as much as possible, to gather her strength, but she could no more stop the continuous clench of her cunt about his cock than she could stop breathing, still, all fight had been wrung from her.

He thrust against her then, forcing the knot deeper, and she whimpered. “I _can’t!_ ”

“ _You have taken your pleasure of me,_ ” he said, using that damnable _reasonable_ tone again, “ _would you deny me the same?_ ” He did not wait for an answer before he was rocking into her again, forcing the knot further and making her _keen_ as he forced still more pleasure on her.

“Please!” she cried, not sure what she was asking for at this point: for him to stop or _never_ stop.

“ _Will you say my name **now,** Little Keeper? I am always more inclined to acknowledge those who address me properly._ ”

All thought of resistance had fled, chased away by the overwhelming sensations. “You are the Dread Wolf!” she sobbed. “ _Fen’Harel!_ ”

“ _And you are **mine,**_ ” he snarled, giving one more great thrust that made her _keen_ before she felt the hot spurt of his seed within. It pushed her over the edge one last time and then she was lost, floating and loose on a sea of inescapable pleasure.

Lavellan was vaguely aware of time passing. She felt the knot slowly subside within her, felt Fen’Harel finally remove his teeth from her shoulder. His magic held her up, cradled her when the limpness of her limbs would have sent her crumbling to the ground. She shivered as he slowly withdrew his length from within her, and then there was magic gathering over and behind her as she was carefully turned and lowered till she rested on her back on the ground.

Then there was a large, warm hand cradling the back of her skull, lifting gently so her lips could meet a second hand cupping cool, sweet water. She drank automatically, and felt more of her _self_ settle back down from that lost floaty feeling. When she opened her eyes, she could see Solas - _no_ , not Solas, _never_ Solas – Fen’Harel had assumed his elvhen form again, and it was he who was caring for her.

His eyes were still too bright, and his teeth seemed too sharp as he smiled at her. He lay to one side of her, body half propped up by one elbow. “How do you feel, ma’sa?” he asked, and it was strange to hear his voice coming from breath and body again, instead of magic. She could feel the vibrations of it through the ground and air, he was pressed so close to her.

She eyed him warily, more and more of her faculties returning. “Why?”

He tsked, “Still asking the wrong questions.” The hand that had been cupping water for her drifted down her torso to splay low over her belly. He pressed down lightly and she felt his seed stream out to coat the insides of her thighs.

Lavellan sucked in a breath through her teeth, but considered what would be the _right_ question. “What are you going to do now?” she finally settled on.

Fen’Harel grinned, more than a little of the wolf in his expression, and curled his fingers down low to brush across her soaked curls. “What do you think, _Little Keeper?_ ” he asked, genuinely curious.

She thought of his actions that night, of the chase, the hunt, how intent he was on her pleasure. She thought of _claiming_ and what that might mean. She thought of the bite on her shoulder and the magic that, even now, coated it: not her own, and not mingling, merely covering her, like some sort of badge or mark.

“You’re going to keep me,” she realized, and she wasn’t sure if the spike of adrenaline that shot through her was born of thrill or terror. Lavellan was a First, meant to be a Keeper, she knew more than most of the legends of the gods and how fickle they could be. She eyed him warily, “For how long?”

“ _That_ , is a good question.” He leaned over to press his forehead to hers so that all she could see was the blue of his eyes, bright and burning. “Forever and a day,” he whispered, “that’s how long I’ll keep you, ma’sa. _Forever and a day._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…I heard rumors that there was a Solas Trash Party. I _think_ this might be enough to gain me entrance.
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> *wanders off to hide in a dark corner*


End file.
